


All I Want Is Everything: Five Times Sylar Talked To Himself (and one time he didn't)

by labelladonna99



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Episode: s04e17 The Wall, Heroes TV, Heroes: Volume 5, M/M, Romance, Slash, Wall-verse, petlar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 05:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17892806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labelladonna99/pseuds/labelladonna99
Summary: Sylar looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He had a few days of beard stubble, his cheeks were flushed and his pupils were huge, as if he were high. And then he smirked at his image because he was high — high on endorphins, high on lust, high on Peter. All that over a kiss that didn’t even happen. It made him laugh out loud and that’s how Sylar knew he was really losing it.He leaned over the sink and pressed his forehead to the cold glass of the mirror, rolling his head from side to side to cool his skin. “Jesus, Peter. What are you doing to me?”





	1. Chapter 1

“Screw you, Petrelli. Or should I say ‘screw me?’” Sylar jeered. “Eventually you’ll want to. The pickens are slim around here.”

That was how it started, with that lame, unoriginal taunt. His mouth was skipping along ahead of his brain and the trope tumbled out before he could catch it. Sylar sure as hell wasn’t desperate enough, even after three years alone, to imagine a universe in which he and Matt Parkman — ugh, no, he couldn’t even think it. Ditto for Bennet or Samuel Sullivan. No, being trapped and alone with a person one hated wasn’t ipso facto a set-up for forbidden sex. The remark was just his usual idle snark. Peter had scoffed at the comment, apparently not reading anything into it, much to Sylar’s relief.

For what felt like eons, there had been nobody here but Sylar and then, like a human equivalent of the Big Bang, Peter materialized out of the empty nothingness and things had been heating up ever since. Having failed to get them out using abilities, Peter sulked for a month or so and then started searching for another way out. Meanwhile, they could barely be in one another’s company without punching, shoving or yelling — often all three. Even after Sylar’s pathetic peace offering of the comic book, they mostly steered clear. God knows despite everything they had to say to each other about their violent and bloody past, most of their verbal exchanges consisted of trading insults and sarcastic jibes. Being trapped with one’s worst enemy didn’t lend itself to meaningful conversation that would result in Working Things Out ™ no matter how obvious a scenario fate had dealt them. A lot of crazy, unbelievable things had happened since abilities had come into Sylar’s life but basic human nature hadn’t changed.

So if all of that was true, why did Sylar’s mind insist on going there?

Okay, sure, Peter was attractive. Anyone with eyes could see that. The guy had bone structure that went on for days and dark hair that felt silky between Sylar’s fingers the times he’d grabbed a hunk of it during a fight. The EMTs wide eyes radiated warmth, when he wasn’t glaring or throwing punches. So what if Petrelli’s slim frame was well-muscled under that fitted t-shirt? It wasn’t like Sylar had never seen a guy with a tight body before. And yeah, Peter _did_ fill his jeans quite nicely and the curve of his ass _was_ rather pronounced but noticing the obvious didn’t mean Sylar appreciated it in _that_ way. Sylar was human after all and there wasn’t much else to look at that he hadn’t already spent three years observing. Peter was something new and colorful in a landscape that had long since faded to gray. Unlike everything else in this godforsaken environment, he was alive, and that alone made him worthy of attention.

That’s all it was. It didn’t mean anything that whenever Peter stepped into view, Sylar’s eyes tracked his every movement. It was curiosity, nothing more. Such were the thoughts occupying Sylar’s mind as he carried his groceries home several days later, when he spied the man in question exiting a building. The wind tousled Peter’s hair and he drew his jacket closed across his chest. He hadn’t noticed Sylar yet and that meant Sylar could gawk all he wanted. Despite his inner protestations to the contrary, he found himself rapt at the sight of the only human he’d seen in years. As Sylar’s approach brought him closer, Peter glanced sideways and spotted him. They made eye contact, Peter nodded a greeting and looked away, continuing his trajectory across Sylar’s path and towards the building they had ransacked together the last time they had met.

Sylar had noticed on previous occasions that Peter was slightly bow legged. That and his crooked mouth were the only imperfections Sylar had detected thus far. Somehow those flaws only enhanced the spectacle of this (former?) enemy parading through Sylar’s lonely nightmare world. Sylar continued to stare as he stepped closer, hardly aware that he had altered his path so that he and Peter would inevitably come face to face. Peter halted and eyed Sylar. Sylar eyed him back and though he hadn’t meant to rake the other man’s body with his gaze, that was what he was doing. He took in the hair falling around Peter’s face, the long masculine column of his neck, the way the smaller man’s coat fit across his shoulders and the slim hips snug in black jeans. Up close, Peter’s skin was smooth, not quite tan under the winter sun but darker than Sylar’s own pale complexion.

“What?” Peter demanded.

“What do you mean, ‘what’?” Sylar returned, absently admiring the warm-looking skin peeking above the collar of Peter’s jacket. His fingers twitched with the sensory deprivation of one who had been alone too long. The urge to touch was overpowering.

“You’re staring.”

“Am I?” Sylar tried to sound innocent, though a trace of his well-honed snark crept into his voice.

“You are and you know it. Cut it out. It’s rude.”

Sylar smirked at the vertical crease that formed between the other man’s eyebrows, an expression he’d come to know quite well in his many angry encounters with the youngest member of the Arthur and Angela Petrelli clan.

“Considering our history, I hardly think staring is the rudest thing I’ve done.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Peter said, with a defiant lift to his chin. “I don’t like it. There’s only two of us here and I need you to help me. We’re going to have to get along, whether we want to or not.”

There it was, the invitation Sylar had been waiting for though he hadn’t known it until this moment and he was certain Peter hadn’t meant it that way.

“Oh I want to, Peter.” Sylar stepped forward, narrowing the polite distance between them until he had breached the socially appropriate zone of proximity. “Believe me, you have no idea how much I’d like for us to get along.” As he spoke, he gave in to the temptation to touch his nemesis and his index finger traced a line across Peter’s jaw and down his neck. Peter’s hand shot out, grabbed Sylar’s and twisted until Sylar’s wrist was at an odd and uncomfortable angle.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Still grasping Sylar’s hand, Peter shoved him backwards. “Why would you touch me like that? Get away from me.”

Sylar wasn’t put off by Peter’s reaction. If anything, the challenge triggered his competitive instinct. “I’m making friends,” he said with a snide tilt of his head. “Isn’t that what you were just saying we should do? It’s been a long time since I had anyone to … touch.”

Peter made a huffing sound in reply and walked away, apparently abandoning whatever his plan had been when he had first approached the building. A low throaty chuckle escaped Sylar and his gaze fixated on Peter’s posterior, encased in the well-fitting jeans. Maybe it wasn’t such a trope after all. Peter was goddamn sexy and Sylar had no desire to deny it any longer. Quite the opposite. The EMT had sparked his dormant sex drive. His libido was roaring back to life and turned up to eleven.

“What can I say, Petrelli? You're hot,” Sylar said with a smirk. Peter didn't answer but Sylar had a feeling there would be plenty of time for them to get to know each other better, in ways they hadn’t yet attempted. This was going to be fun. A cold gust of wind ripped through the side street, making Sylar wish he’d worn a hat. He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and resumed walking home, cradling the grocery bag. “I could use some of that warmth,” he muttered, noting with a backward glance that Peter had disappeared from view and he was alone. _Again_.

***


	2. Chapter 2

The first time they met, Sylar had heard Peter before he saw him. A man was telling Claire to run and when Sylar emerged from the girls’ locker room, there he was at the opposite end of a long hallway, a stranger in a tan trench coat with a mop of dark hair obscuring his features. Sylar’s first thought was confusion. _Who the hell is he? What is he doing here?_

Then he was angry, gut churning, breath coming in rapid bursts of air as he stalked the cheerleader, who got away, and instead caught up with the slightly built man who had gotten between him and his target. Stopping at the edge of the stadium, Sylar reached for the stranger and they toppled off the roof together.

Now here they were facing off again and after all this time, Peter continued to inspire the same feelings. Confusion. Anger. Only now there was something else.

Sylar had Peter by the lapels of his jacket just like that night in Odessa, although they had been upright then and now Sylar was straddling him. He’d won. Peter’s left cheek was bruised, his swollen eyelid was turning a mottled purple color, and his mouth was smeared with blood. He was beaten but still defiant, refusing to surrender and lie down. _Damn him!_ All it would take was one hard smash of Peter’s skull against the pavement and he’d be finished.

Shaking his head in disgust at himself for waffling or maybe at Peter for just … being Peter, Sylar lowered Peter’s head to the ground. He released his hold on Peter’s coat and rose to stand over him.

“Get up.”

Peter blinked his one good eye and didn’t otherwise move at all.

“I said, ‘get up!’” When Peter continued to lie motionless, Sylar sighed. “Come on, Peter, stand up. You’re a mess.”

He reached a hand out for Peter to grasp and after a hesitant moment during which Peter simply stared at him, Peter took the offered hand and let Sylar pull him upright.

Sylar watched Peter use his sleeve to blot his bleeding mouth. He’d offer him a handkerchief if he had one but he didn’t, so he just stood there, suddenly awkward after nearly beating Peter senseless.

“Are you going to be alright?” he asked.

Peter glowered at him under fierce, dark eyebrows. “Since when do you care?”

Sylar shrugged. “Since I beat the crap out of you, I suppose.”

“Yeah? Well I don’t need your pity.” Peter swiped at his mouth again as he walked past Sylar and headed for his building.

Sylar gazed after him and felt a weird hitch in his breath at the familiar sight of Peter’s bow legged stride, his gait altered by the kick Sylar had delivered to his thigh.

It had been 383 days since Peter’s arrival in the deserted city and they had spent much of that time fighting. It wasn’t solving anything and to his chagrin Sylar realized that even winning the fight didn’t make him feel better.

“It’s not pity,” Sylar said, although Peter was out of earshot. “Maybe I actually do care.”

 

***


	3. Chapter 3

“You’re being obtuse, Peter,” Sylar said. The word formed on his tongue because he had all of the letters except the ‘e.’ There was no open ‘e’ on the Scrabble board either but maybe Peter would put one down if he ever took his turn.

Peter laid his tiles on the board without comment. No ‘e.’ He tallied his points and wrote them on the score sheet, then looked at Sylar. “You’re being evasive.” He continued to gaze steadily at Sylar with that demanding look Sylar recognized from the dead senator’s memories. Nathan had spent most of his life trying to resist that look and when he finally succeeded, it turned out to be his worst mistake. Sylar was resigned that he, too, would capitulate in time but for now, he gathered what resistance he still possessed.

“I don’t owe you my secrets.” Sylar returned Peter’s stare long enough to prove he wasn’t cowed by the scrutiny, then dropped his gaze to the letters on his stand so he could plot his next move.

“You’ve killed, my God, I don’t know how many people,” Peter said. “One of them was somebody I loved. You _do_ owe me — something.”

Sylar chuckled. “Is this like one of those movies where killing someone’s family member means you’re honor bound to take care of them forever?”

Peter’s head snapped up and his face wore a puzzled grimace. “What are you talking about? Why would I want that from _you_?”

Sylar rose partially from his seat so he could lean across the board.

“Because somebody has to! You’re an empath. You need people. You need…”

He grasped Peter’s chin and brought their faces within inches of one another.

“...contact.” Sylar concluded, his voice going gravelly as it dipped down to its lowest register.

He could have kissed Peter then. They were close enough and oh, god, how he wanted to. Peter’s eyes had gone wide at Sylar’s touch and his mouth had dropped slightly open. Imagining the warmth and softness of that mouth was arousing. A press of lips, gentle at first and then increasing the pressure, tongues darting forward — ahhh, the fantasy had Sylar delirious with wanting. He restrained himself and settled for brushing his thumb across Peter’s lips before letting go of his face. That touch alone was so erotic he had to plant himself back in his chair before the desire ran away with him.

Sylar braced himself for what was surely coming — a punch, a shove, upending the game board. At the very least, Peter would tell him off, loudly, insisting that Sylar explain why he made passes when they could barely get through a week without fighting. They hated each other. The games, the proximity — that was only to pass the lonely hours in an unpeopled world.

Peter didn't do any of the things that Sylar had been expecting. He stared across the table, his dark hazel eyes unfocused as if he were seeing something other than his worst enemy seated opposite. _What did he see? What was he thinking?_ Sylar was so eager to know that he had to clench his teeth to refrain from asking. Peter’s hand came up and he absently touched two fingers to his mouth where Sylar’s thumb had been moments before. _Ohhhh_ , so _that_ was Peter’s answer. It was a good one. So good that Sylar wanted to jump him or, barring that, make Peter leave so he could be alone with his fantasies. Instead, he left the table and headed for the bathroom. What he needed was a cold shower but that would be weird with Peter waiting at the table to continue their game of Scrabble.

Sylar looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He had a few days of beard stubble, his cheeks were flushed and his pupils were huge, as if he were high. And then he smirked at his image because he _was_ high — high on endorphins, high on lust, high on Peter. All that over a kiss that didn’t even happen. It made him laugh out loud and that’s how Sylar knew he was really losing it. He leaned over the sink and pressed his forehead to the cold glass of the mirror, rolling his head from side to side to cool his skin. “Jesus, Peter. What are you doing to me?”

***


	4. Chapter 4

Nathan’s birthday had just passed and Peter was still testy. He had used to mourn in private, making himself scarce until the relentless gray tide of grief that rolled in around every holiday had passed for the time being. Sylar had always felt lonely and discarded at those times but the old saw “be careful what you wish for” was the ultimate karmic expression. Sylar had learned that being subjected to the grieving process he’d caused was far worse than missing Peter’s company for a few days, though as punishments went, it couldn’t begin to compare with three years of forced solitude. Sylar deserved it all and more. He was well aware of that. And in a way, it wasn’t a punishment at all to endure whatever Peter meted out in his grief in return for his presence the rest of the time.

Still, the question he asked made Sylar wary. What a landmine of a topic this was going to be.

It had been a typical few days of Peter bashing the brick wall and Sylar bringing breakfast and lunch, as usual. Sometimes he sat and read a book while Peter hammered, but knowing that Nathan’s birthday was a time for mourning, he had tried to give his companion space. “Don’t go,” Peter had said. “I’d appreciate the company.” That was yesterday and Sylar had stayed, relieved that it had been an uneventful day after all, other than Peter being quieter than his normal self. Now the storm Sylar had been dreading seemed poised to arrive.

Sylar pondered the wording Peter had used. He didn’t ask whether Sylar _believed_ in unconditional love, which was in itself a loaded question. He had asked what Sylar _knew_ about it. That was a lot more personal, even if the tone of voice Peter used wasn’t antagonistic. He didn’t sound as if he had meant to bait Sylar but Sylar couldn’t help wondering where he was going with that kind of inquiry. It almost didn’t matter because he was going to respond anyway. On an ordinary day, Sylar would balk at Peter’s intrusiveness but, well, he couldn’t kick the guy when he was down.

“I suppose it depends on how you define the term and what you mean by what I know about it,” he replied, giving Peter a brief glance to see how that non-answer would be taken. Peter had retired the sledgehammer for the day and they were walking back to Sylar’s apartment. It had been overcast all afternoon and now the clouds appeared ready to dump the rain they had collected. As if to confirm Sylar’s prediction, several fat raindrops plopped on the pavement.

“Let’s get out of the rain,” Peter said, steering towards Sylar’s building instead of separating as they usually did and going home to shower.

They climbed the stairs to Sylar’s apartment without further conversation and once inside, Peter went to the kitchen and offered to make tea. That was it? He was dropping the subject? That was too good to be true.

“My mother once said that unconditional love isn’t love at all.” Peter said, having served the tea and now joining Sylar at the table. “Do you believe that? I never got to ask her what she meant. We were hiding from Danko’s agents, in a church of all places. She said that I must hate her and I said that I didn’t. I don’t. She’s still my mom, y’know?”

Sylar cocked a curious eyebrow at Peter. “Far be it from me to explain the inner workings of your mother, if that’s what you’re asking. That’s a mind I can’t begin to fathom.” He brought his mug to his lips and blew on the hot tea gently before taking a small sip.

“No,” Peter chuckled ruefully. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand her either. I just wondered what you thought about what she said. Y’know, in general.”

 _How do you make love stay?_ Sylar had asked that of someone once. He had to have meant it sarcastically at the time although his recall of the incident was fuzzy. Who had it been? Claire? Danko? He fished for the memory but it was amorphous and slipped away.

“What do I think about unconditional love? I have no idea. If I had to define it, I would say it means no strings attached. You might mean it in a different way. Knowing you, it’s probably religious.”

“Knowing me, huh?” Peter said and before Sylar could interject that he hadn’t meant it as an insult, Peter gave a small grin to show that he hadn’t taken offense. “I guess I do think about love in spiritual terms. To me, unconditional love means caring about people no matter who they are or what they’ve done. They could be the mayor or they could be the homeless alcoholic guy Hesam and I pick up every few weeks. We’re supposed to help each other. I’m going to forgive even when the people I love haven’t done right by me. If they need help, I’m going to be there if I’m able. I guess that makes me sound like a doormat.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Sylar said, trying to be kind though he did think Peter tolerated far too much abuse from his family. _It’s not what I would have done._ He winced at that memory of Nathan berating Peter for saving him. “It’s an ideal, right? Something your faith tells you to strive for even if you don’t always succeed. You do more than most to live by your ideals.”

Peter blinked his eyes several times in surprise and both men blushed, Sylar for gushing like a schoolgirl with a crush and he supposed Peter for being moved by it. “Thank you,” Peter said quietly. “I appreciate that.” They drank their tea in silence for awhile. “Hey, do you mind if I use your bathroom to shower? Since I’m here anyway…”

Sylar lent Peter a pair of sweatpants, a t-shirt and underwear and made himself comfortable on the couch while Peter showered. He tried to read his latest murder mystery and several pages later, he realized he wasn’t retaining any of it. He was still turning the conversation with Peter over in his mind like a Rubick’s Cube, wondering if he’d missed something. He had been assuming that Peter’s intention, on the occasion of his dead brother’s birthday, was to lash out at Sylar by digging through his painful personal history. It seemed instead that Peter was focused on his own complicated past.

Had Nathan loved Peter unconditionally? Certainly Peter had loved his older sibling without reservation. Sifting through Nathan’s memories wasn’t what Sylar wanted to be doing right now and it wasn’t important at the moment for him to know how Nathan had felt. What mattered was what Peter believed.

The bathroom door opened and Sylar’s gaze tracked Peter across the room. The sweatpants hugged Peter’s rounded buttocks although they were several inches too long and bunched at the shorter man’s ankles. Peter wearing Sylar’s clothes was sexy in a way that went beyond appearance. It was intimate. Vulnerable. Peter’s wet-from-the-shower hair intensified the odd protective urge that suddenly gripped Sylar. There was nothing here to protect Peter from other than himself.

“Could you scoot over and make some room for me?” Peter asked, motioning to where Sylar’s long legs were hogging the couch. That was new. Usually Peter would sit somewhere else, not ask for a concession. Sylar sat up straighter and bent his legs so that Peter could take a seat. Peter had brought a paperback from Sylar’s shelf and he began to read. Gradually Sylar sunk lower and let his legs stretch out again until his feet were touching the side of Peter’s thigh. If Peter noticed, he didn’t appear to mind. Sylar observed the other man for a long time, his mind whirring with thoughts, wishes and plans.

“Your mother was wrong,” he blurted. “As usual.”

That got Peter’s attention. He put the paperback face down on the coffee table and turned his head expectantly at Sylar, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

Sylar readjusted his posture, sitting taller because the subject required a level of gravitas that couldn’t be conveyed from a lazily slumped position. “I can’t speak for what other people mean when they talk about love, but if there’s one person I know, it’s you. You don’t do things halfway and it’s a shame your mother didn’t appreciate that about you. But you know that already. Why did you ask for my opinion?”

“Perspective, I guess.” Peter shrugged. “Things I thought I knew, especially about my family, turned out to be wrong. What about you? Have you had that in your life?”

 _Ah, so it_ is _about me._ “Received or given?”

“Both,” Peter said.

Sylar snorted. “You don’t ask for much, do you?” How did Peter lure him into these emotional sand traps when Sylar should know better by now?

“Neither,” Sylar answered flatly, left eyebrow arched and gaze hard with warning for Peter to spare him the sorrowful eyes and pitying words. “I don’t remember my real mother. But the mother who raised me was never satisfied with who I was.” They’d talked about this before.

“I think she loved you,” Peter said softly. “Your real mom, I mean. I’m sure of it. You don’t remember consciously but it imprinted on you. I think things would have turned out a lot differently otherwise.”

“Don’t butter me up with bullshit, Peter,” Sylar said, getting angry in spite of his vow to himself that he would cut Peter slack when he was grieving. “Things would have turned out differently? You mean like I could have become a killer? Oh, wait…!”

Peter held his ground without returning the anger. “We both know what you’ve done, Sylar. But there were things you could have done and didn’t, from what you’ve told me. There were people you helped. You’re helping me. You made a lot of bad, really awful choices. You can’t fix them. But you aren’t locked into making the same choices over and over. You want to change. That alone makes a difference. At some point you have to stop punishing yourself for the past and decide to make a better future.”

“Great sermon, Saint Peter,” Sylar snarked, although it had the intended effect, for now. He poked Peter’s thigh with his big toe, the closest he could come to a thank you for the pep talk. No amount of speechifying would convert him back to religion but Peter’s faith that things could change — that _he_ could change — was contagious, though Sylar would need repeated doses before he could truly believe. He scooted across the couch and leaned forward to nuzzle Peter’s temple.

“You should come to bed with me,” he murmured against Peter’s hair. Peter turned his head to look at Sylar with a neutral, inscrutable expression. “I know you won’t so don’t bother refusing. I just thought you should know, in case it’s not already patently obvious…” and here his voice dropped, not in a seductive way, but because he was almost embarrassed by the level of sentiment behind his words. “... you’re wanted.”

Peter gave a small nod of acknowledgement and an expression that was almost a smile and not quite a wink. Sylar had seen that look before and he struggled to classify it. It wasn’t encouraging him to pursue his seduction, nor promising that it would be fruitful. It was almost affectionate in an impersonal way, like smiling at a stranger for no particular reason. Sylar read it as “I see you, I recognize and appreciate your interest, but I’m going to pass.” It was polite, that’s what it was, and typical of Peter to deliver the kindest shut down ever. With nothing more to say or do at the moment, Sylar retreated to his corner of the couch and they both picked up their books and resumed reading.

A thought popped into Sylar’s head then, uninvited, the type of thought he tried not to have. All that talk about unconditional love...had Peter been trying to tell him something? Was he testing Sylar? Sylar waved the thought away as wishful thinking. He wasn’t alone in feeling a physical attraction; the strong chemistry between them was mutual. But whether Peter would ever act on it was the million dollar mystery, never mind the two of them developing feelings for one another. That was an idea straight out of some teenage romance novel.

He laid his book down on his lap to observe Peter and thought about what his answer would be if, however unlikely, Peter would ever want that from him. _I think I could, Peter. Try me. I think I could love you._

***


	5. Chapter 5

From inside his apartment, Sylar could hear the relentless pounding of Peter’s sledgehammer against the brick wall. Thwack! Peter had been at it all morning, same as always. It was futile, but Sylar had to admire the guy’s persistence, not to mention his energy. The slamming did nothing to chip away at the seemingly indestructible wall but it did wonders for Peter’s body. He had already been fit when he had started his quest to demolish the barrier. Now he was like a gladiator, strong and sculpted, but natural, not overdone.

Sylar exhaled to send the mental image packing and finished making the sandwiches he was preparing for lunch. When he stepped outside, he was struck by how warm the air was for October. Peter must be feeling it too because he had removed the flannel shirt he’d been wearing and tied the sleeves around his waist.

Sylar staked out a spot on the pavement outside of the swinging hammer’s arc, sat cross-legged on the ground and began to read his book. He’d wait until Peter took a break to dig into his lunch so that they could eat together.

Thirty or so pages later, Sylar glanced up. Peter’s labor was the best show in town and Sylar was mesmerized every time Peter hoisted the sledgehammer high and his shirt rode up to expose a few inches of bare stomach. Sylar was becoming hungrier by the minute and not for lunch. As he watched, Peter swept his forearm across his sweaty forehead and before Sylar knew what he was going to do, Peter had pulled the t-shirt over his head and tossed it to the ground. The empath had the most beautiful skin Sylar had ever seen on a man and now there were acres of it on display, a warm lightly tan color that shone with perspiration. His arm and torso muscles bunched and lengthened as he swung the hammer like an Olympic athlete. It easily made Sylar’s top ten list of sexiest sights ever. Finally Peter lowered the hammer and rested the head of the tool on the ground while he caught his breath. “I think I’m done for now,” he said.

That was Sylar’s cue. He tore a wad of paper towels from the roll he had brought along with their lunch and got hastily to his feet. Approaching Peter, he began to blot the sweat from Peter’s shoulders and back. Peter reached for the paper towels in Sylar’s hand.

“Thanks but I can do that myself,” he said, glancing sideways at Sylar.

Sylar pulled the towels towards himself. “Shhh, it’s okay,” he said, avoiding eye contact because he didn’t want to come on too strong. Not yet. He only wanted to touch, even though his hand wasn’t in direct contact with that beautiful skin.

Peter didn't respond, but he didn’t move away or make any further attempt to take over the job from Sylar. Sylar interpreted that as permission granted to continue his ministrations. Stepping behind Peter, he dabbed at Peter’s upper back and neck with the paper towels. Slowly and carefully so as not to spook the EMT, because he could hardly believe Peter was allowing this, Sylar lifted Peter’s hair from the nape of his neck and dried the sweat underneath, resisting the urge to run his fingers through the damp strands. Have to keep this professional was his inane thought as he strove to regulate his breathing. He didn’t want to come off like some horny pervert even though that was exactly what he was.

Coming around to face Peter, Sylar wiped Peter’s throat, swiped across his collar bone and dabbed at his upper chest. He could feel Peter’s gaze on him but he didn’t look up as he moved the wad of paper towel down the center of Peter’s chest toward his abdomen. Was that him breathing slightly hard or was it Peter?

“Okay,” Peter said. “That’s — enough. I’ll take it from here.” He closed his hand over Sylar’s and now Sylar met Peter’s eyes. For what felt like minutes ticking away to eternity, their eyes and hands held. Sylar wondered what would happen if he kissed Peter. Would he allow it? Would he kiss back? But the moment passed without Sylar finding out. Peter broke their eye contact, pulled at Sylar’s hand to get him to release the paper towels and gave a slight push against his chest that said “back off” as clearly as if Peter had spoken the words aloud. Sylar didn’t realize until it was over that his heart had been pounding. He nodded and stepped away, back to his spot where he’d left the food and drinks, while Peter finished cleaning up and put his t-shirt back on.

The silence as they began eating lunch was awkward and Sylar was grateful for the food as cover for why they weren’t speaking.

“I’m going to call it a day,” Peter finally said. “It’s too hot to keep working. I’ll shower back at my place and then maybe we could go get out the rowboats in the park.”

“Sure. That sounds great.” Sylar said, still at a loss for words that even his usual snark failed him and made him feel like a besotted teenager.

They finished their lunch, gathered the trash and headed back towards Sylar’s apartment, where they parted company.

Peter disappeared around the corner and for a few moments, his shadow lagged behind. “Soon, Peter,” Sylar said to the departing phantom. He grinned with satisfaction that his plan was coming to fruition. He had been watching and listening carefully for Peter’s cues. Granted, he had been a slow learner when it came to seducing Peter Petrelli and had wasted far too much time resisting the inevitable. He did learn, however, from all of his prior mistakes. He had come to understand what was required and strangely enough the very things Peter most wanted from him had turned out to be exactly what Sylar needed to give.

The brick wall might be impregnable but Peter wasn’t. As unyielding as the passionate medic had once seemed, Sylar had located his pressure points. It was only a matter of time before the last of his resistance crumbled.

***


	6. Chapter 6

Peter was hammering the wall as usual and Sylar watched the man’s back muscles undulating under his tight t-shirt. Suddenly it was all too much, this slow dance of seduction they’d been engaged in for ages. It was time to rock and roll. Sylar stepped forward in time with the thrust of the sledgehammer and wrapped his arms around Peter’s torso. Peter’s body slackened, all of its coiled energy released in a sigh as he leaned against Sylar and let the sledgehammer fall. Sylar’s hands roamed under the t-shirt while his mouth found Peter’s ear and whispered. “I’m going to take you right here. I know you want me.”

Peter groaned and pushed back against Sylar in reply, while his strong hands gripped Sylar’s thighs.

Sylar’s head was nearly spinning from the repressed desire that was about to be sated. He took a long breath in and exhaled in slow beats to steady himself and then plucked the hem of Peter’s t-shirt and pulled it up. Peter’s hair swung like a shampoo model’s as the t-shirt was pulled free over his head. Sylar admired hair, skin, muscles, and the shape of Peter’s body while he removed his own shirt to feel it all against himself and sighed with pleasure.

Next Sylar mouthed and sucked and bit at Peter’s neck and shoulders, leaving a wet trail of reddened marks, while Peter goaded him with enthusiastic moans and reached up to tug at his hair. Gripping Peter’s belt loops, Sylar walked him forward a few steps. “Put your hands on the wall, Peter.” Peter complied. Sylar pressed his erection against Peter’s ass and rotated his hips while rubbing the bulge in Peter’s pants. Panting, Peter started to unbuckle his belt and Sylar undid his own pants, then stopped Peter’s hands from going any further. “Let me,” Sylar growled in the other man’s ear. He reached for the top hem of the jeans and pushed them down past Peter’s hips and butt.

Both men were naked now except for the jeans puddling around their ankles. Sylar grasped Peter’s hips when a crashing noise startled him awake. _What the —??_ Disgruntled at the interruption of his dream, Sylar got up to investigate the source of the crash and found that the colander he’d piled on top of last night’s dishes to dry on the counter had slid into the sink.

“I dreamed about you last night,” Sylar said to Peter over breakfast at the diner later that morning. Peter knew better by now than to take that kind of bait and merely gave a disinterested “oh yeah?” Sylar smirked at the guy’s pretense of going back to the kitchen for more coffee. They’d both had two large cups already.

“Don’t you want to know what the dream was about?” Sylar demanded when Peter had sat back down. Peter inhaled one of his trying-to-be-patient deep breaths followed by his patented “I’m listening to your nonsense” head tilt and penetrating gaze. “You’re going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not so go on,” Peter said.

Sylar scrutinized every micro-expression that flickered on Peter’s face as he recounted the dream. “That’s pretty hot,” Peter said in a conversational tone when Sylar had finished. He got up and started to clear the table. “Minus the interruption, is that how you want it to happen?”

“No,” Sylar said. “It’s just a fantasy.” He followed Peter with his gaze and made sure he had eye contact to enumerate the ways in which his desires differed from the dream. “For one thing, I want to see your face.”

Peter waggled his eyebrows suggestively and his mouth quirked sideways in amusement. “That’s a good answer. Sexy. What else?” Sylar got up to help and also to keep Peter in his orbit. It was kind of rude for Peter to be bustling around the diner while talking about sex although Sylar probably should have waited for a better time to introduce the topic.

He stood in front of the table Peter was about to wipe down and put one finger on the sponge to halt Peter’s movement, waiting once more for their eyes to meet. “I don’t want you to give in.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up at that. “No...?!”

“No, no, not that,” Sylar corrected, realizing he had given Peter the wrong impression. “I want you to decide. Your body already wants me. I’ve known that for ages. If it were up to your body, we would have been sleeping together after the first year. Maybe sooner. I want more, Peter.”

A long, combustible look passed between them. _“Let that sink in”_ Sylar thought and broke eye contact before Peter could. He turned away and resumed tidying the diner.

On the way home, Peter’s hand brushed Sylar’s several times while they walked. It might have been accidental and Sylar didn’t want to overreact. As the next few days passed, Peter seemed to be taking every opportunity to touch, in ways that were more intimate without being overtly sexual, than the constant friendly pats, squeezes and forearm grabs that seemed to be as natural for Peter as breathing.

“Sylar?” Peter was cross-legged on the couch, plucking his guitar. He’d been trying to learn a new song that was too advanced for Sylar to attempt.

“Hmm?” Sylar was at his work bench tinkering with an antique clock he’d found recently while half-listening to Peter’s noodling around on the guitar.

“What if I said I’ve made a decision?”

“About what?” Sylar asked without looking up but when no answer followed, curiosity made him raise his gaze to Peter’s face, which said it all. Everything went still — Sylar’s posture, his heartbeat, his breathing. Even the clocks stopped ticking while he sat there letting his mind absorb those words. Peter gave him one of those happy little grins and set the guitar aside. It was like slow motion watching his legs unfold, bare feet hit the floor, step across the room and stop next to Sylar’s chair. Sylar looked up at Peter standing over him and allowed himself to be tugged to a standing position. He liked Peter taking the lead; it was flattering to be seduced for a change.

The first kiss was gentle, slow and lazy like there was all the time in the world. Sylar had been aroused from the second he realized Peter’s meaning but now the heat was becoming more insistent. His mouth tingled, demanding more pressure, more contact, more tongue. Soon they were both panting and clumsy in their eagerness, wet mouths sliding past one another’s to land on necks and shoulders.

Peter was fumbling with the buttons on Sylar’s shirt and Sylar wanted to rip it away but Peter subdued him. “Slow down. Let me tease you.” Peter’s bedroom voice was husky and mellow, another tick in the “sexy as hell” column.

“Really? Don’t you think you’ve teased me long enough?” Sylar asked. He was determined to touch every inch of Peter, even his earlobes and toes, but especially all the parts in between that he lingered over as he removed Peter’s clothes.

Finally they were naked, smushed together against a wall for leverage, kissing and grinding passionately. Sylar steered Peter to the bed, tumbled onto it and pulled Peter down on top of himself. “Tell me what you want, Peter.”

Peter smiled and kissed the tip of Sylar’s nose and then his mouth. “You. I want you.” He slid down Sylar’s body and showed him, with hands and mouth and tongue. Sylar peaked in a white hot flash of ecstasy that ended with a long shuddering groan. “Your turn,” he said to Peter when he had recovered his senses.

“You don’t have to our first time,” Peter said, and guided Sylar’s hands to caress him instead. “Kiss me.” Sylar repositioned himself so he could stroke Peter with one hand and let his other hand traverse his lover’s body. He kissed him like he owned that crooked mouth, biting and sucking on his lips and exploring with his tongue. The traveling hand teased, skimming across and between Peter's buttocks. Peter’s hip thrusts accelerated, encouraging Sylar. “You like that?” Sylar asked. “Oh yeah,” Peter said, panting hard. “I’m close, so close.”

Sylar pressed harder, watching and listening for the right moment to send Peter flying and when it came he pushed the tip of his finger inside while sucking hard at Peter’s neck. He was rewarded when Peter’s body went rigid and he cried out. “Oh God, Sylar, oh yeah, ohhhh yes!” Nothing had ever sounded as erotic as his own name in Peter’s mouth during orgasm.

Sylar curled up behind Peter on the narrow bed and rested his arm over Peter’s abdomen. He sleepily kissed the top of Peter’s head and drifted off.

When he woke up, Peter was already awake, propped up on his elbow and looking at Sylar in a way that he had never done before. Clearly the sex agreed with him. “What?” he asked Peter. “You’re looking at me funny.”

Peter chuckled. “Fondly, Sylar. This is me feeling affectionate towards you.”

Affection sounded like something Sylar wanted to get used to. “After all this time, what made you finally decide?”

“When you made it clear it wasn’t just sex anymore,” Peter said. “Casual sex is great when you’re not the only two people in the world...and don’t have our history. You and I can never be casual.”

“I’m glad you realize that, Peter, because all I want from you is everything. There's nothing casual about that.”

***


End file.
